


unfinished portraits in charcoal

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Falconry, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:40:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: Hashirama has a revelation, but not until the end.





	1. Chapter 1

(a)

The goshawk is a peculiar, opportunistic hunter. During the nesting season, if predators approach the nest, it will abandon its young, leaving them exposed and vulnerable, and circle around the intruder in order to attack from behind.

Madara doesn’t play favorites with his birds of prey. Or so he says.

* * *

1.

Two months have passed since they parted ways.

He sees Madara's face in the curve of the distant mountains and the curling mist on the surface of the river at his feet. Madara is in the gilded green leaves hanging over the riverbank, in the squares of setting sunlight blazing against the floor from the window, in the shadow of the waning moon. He is the sound of cicadas and the blink of fireflies; he is the taste of summer berries on Hashirama's tongue; he is the rush of chakra as Hashirama coaxes green wood out of barren rock. He is the flickering candle on Hashirama’s windowsill, bobbing and sparking; he is autumn's first chill and summer's last sultry breeze; he is miles of bruised cumulus clouds hanging heavy over the land, threatening storms.

As autumn wears on and frost glitters on the forest floor surrounding the Senju compound, Hashirama sneaks out before anyone else is awake and climbs to the cliff where he and Madara had once rested, and reaffirms to himself the promise he had made there. The weeds that had grown tall and persistent during the summer have shriveled, each one draped on the ground, coated in frost. Hashirama rests one hand flat on the clifftop, a peculiar feeling settling in the area of his chest. Was this the exact spot where Madara's hand had once connected with the earth, months ago? He had curled his fingers in the dirt and promised to protect his little brother at any cost and Hashirama had watched him, watched his thin face contort into a look that belonged on a jaded old man, not a scrawny young teenager, and silently promised himself that he wouldn't let anything happen to Madara or his little brother. Madara was too important. _Is_ too important.

Hashirama feels the sun coming up on his back. If he’s away from the compound much longer they’ll send Tobirama out after him. Everyone has probably already eaten. He should go. He should have done a lot of things.

His birthday is in two weeks. He wonders if Madara remembers.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Madara remembers.

Two months have passed since the dream and the Uchiha clan is slowly starving. They have already run out of functional armor; now food is just as scarce. Tajima Uchiha is practically a skeleton, not that that makes him any less terrifying, and talk has already turned to Madara taking his place as clan leader. But Madara cannot be clan leader, not if he can’t even protect his brothers.

_(Protect your clan, Madara!)_

They are raiding villages for sustenance more often now, surviving off of less and less as the days turn colder and the nights become longer. Tajima Uchiha eats last, bathes last, goes to sleep last. The clan is a starved and wounded wild animal, crawling along on all fours, dragging its bloody body through the snow.

But there is something much worse, something Madara can’t bring himself to think about without deadly hot guilt curling up in his stomach. He is a traitor and he knows it. This is equal parts thrilling and dreadful. He prays Izuna won’t notice, at least. He must appear unshaken. He remembers the dream again and doubt writhes in his chest, hangs sour on his tongue. Each waking moment is agony.

Hashirama is in his head and he won’t _leave._

Madara wants to cry and tear grass to shreds and pound his fists into the earth because Hashirama is in his head, always smiling, always pleasant, and it _hurts._ The night of the ambush, the night Madara first awakened his sharingan—

That night Madara woke up sweating and gasping for breath, his bedclothes hanging half off him, the dream still clinging dead center in his mind. The sharingan blazed scarlet in the blackness.

Hashirama’s hands—

Hashirama’s hands on his throat, Hashirama’s lips on his neck, behind his ear, at his sternum. The covers were wet; he was _sticky,_ he realized with dawning horror.

Madara probed at his slippery thighs, shame unfurling in his throat. Everything was too hot. The newly activated sharingan throbbed. Madara felt it again, felt Hashirama’s deceptively soft fingers trailing over his skin and his lips pleasantly whispering _betrayal_ down his chest, lower and lower until—

To his left, great deep slumbering breaths from Izuna. Madara shuddered and untangled himself from the blanket and went to clean himself up. Trying to go back to sleep was pointless, he realized, mere minutes later.

By morning, he still couldn’t get the dream out of his head.

* * *

 

Madara loves the old Hashirama, one who is no longer there. Hashirama is his enemy now, and that’s the absolute end of it, because Hashirama is _not_ that same child from the riverbank; neither of them are the same, not anymore, and this war is reality. Just as it has been for centuries, so will it continue on long after he and Hashirama are both dead. _Dead—_ If he’s dead, who will take care of Izuna? He _needs_ to protect Izuna. He needs Izuna to survive.

(Someday, someday between now and the moment of his death, he knows he won’t be able to protect Izuna anymore.)

“I’m not afraid of my father,” he had said to Hashirama once, on the riverbank. The tremor in his voice betrayed him. At once, the sunny day felt colder.

_(You were supposed to protect them, Madara. That was your job. Protect your clan!)_

_Betrayal,_ Hashirama whispers in his head, and Madara shoves the dream from his mind once again, a shudder running through his body. He is the future clan leader, the prodigy of the Uchiha, and he remembers how he once watched Hashirama strip off his shirt after a sparring match like it was nothing and dive flawlessly into the river and then surface with his skin dripping wet and his stupid hair slicked back from his forehead.

Madara pulls his blanket up to his chin and slips his fingers below his waistband and gets to work.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Madara, Hashirama decides, walks the uncomfortable line between an intense desire to be liked and an equally intense unwillingness to appear even remotely likeable. It’s _frustrating,_ it’s agonizing, trying to reason with him. Once he’s dead set on something, nothing will stop him, regardless of the consequences, regardless of collateral damage.

“Once we get stronger, the adults will _have_ to listen!” Hashirama had said, many years ago. Now he is an adult, and Madara too, and everything is turning to disaster. Just last week things had seemed so simple. Last week Hashirama knew with absolute certainty that Madara was just as tired of the fighting as he was. He knew that during their last battle, Madara was very nearly blind. Over the years of constant war, Hashirama had watched his once-sharp eyes cloud over with tiredness and overuse; watched as his face gathered lines far too early; watched as hollows deepened in his cheeks and his ribs appeared under his ever-loosening tunic. Watched—never interfered. Until now.

“Why bother with the Uchiha?” Tobirama had scoffed as Hashirama tore up the latest ceasefire draft and started anew.

“We _need_ the Uchiha,” Hashirama had insisted, slumping back in his chair and running his hands down his face. The words swam in front of his aching eyes. _Alliance, truce, reparations, peace, greater good._

But, Hashirama thinks, last week things were simpler.

He should have seen this coming. He and Madara will fight until one of them dies and then whoever is left will fight until _he_ dies and whoever is left then will keep fighting—and so many people, so many siblings and parents and friends and lovers, will die in their wake.

And—

And children.

Izuna Uchiha was only twenty-four years old.

Hashirama still feels like a child, some days, and other days he feels weary and sore and exhausted. He understands why Butsuma was always so harsh, so bitter, so steadfastly pragmatic. Sometimes it is all he can do not to yell at Tobirama (and he will not yell, he will _not),_ but the urge to raise his voice keeps surging up in him. Increasingly so, lately.

Izuna died three nights ago, according to the defectors from the Uchiha, which is the only thing they seem to be able to agree upon.

“Madara’s dead,” reports one defector at the emergency clan meeting that night (Hashirama’s blood runs cold). “He decided to join his brother in the afterlife.”

“No,” pipes up another Uchiha. “He’s still alive. He never picked a successor. Madara wouldn’t abandon the clan.”

“He ripped his brother’s eyes out of his skull before his body had gone cold,” says another, doggedly stabbing a kunai into the table, and Tobirama’s eyes meet Hashirama’s own from across the room, his face unfathomable in the bobbing candlelight. Hashirama looks away, knowing exactly what Tobirama wants to say, but all they have to work with are rumors right now. And the rumors fly:

“He’s barricaded himself in his quarters. Hasn’t eaten. Isn’t sleeping. Refused medical aid.”

“He killed Izuna himself, I heard. Slit his throat. Nobody saw it happen. Everyone is too afraid of him to say anything.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Hashirama closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. The Uchiha defectors continue to deliberate and argue, but Hashirama can barely hear them anymore; a deafening cold anger is rising in Hashirama’s throat, pounding in his eardrums, and he clenches his hands against the table and feels wood crack under his fists. They don’t know Madara. _None_ of them know Madara.

A shinobi is one who endures. Hashirama doesn’t know of anyone who’s endured more than Madara has.


	4. Chapter 4

(b)

Madara watches as a large tawny hawk perched at the top of a dead snag tears the spinal column from a still-wriggling fish. The wet ground is flecked with gore. Madara’s eyesight is impeccable now. He has not seen so clearly in a very long time.

* * *

4.

The tent, hastily assembled in the aftermath of the battle, is littered with scattered armor and mopped-up blood and cloth and stray bandages. Medics run back and forth, tending to the shinobi who remain. They don’t really need so many witnesses, but it turns out a lot of people wanted to see real, physical evidence of peace.

(Hashirama knows that the war was over the moment Madara seized his hand, but no matter.)

The truce itself is a far cry from the ceasefire agreement that Hashirama had once spent months meticulously writing and rewriting. It is scrawled down hastily on a torn scrap of paper and Madara bleeds all over the corner as he's signing it but it's there, and the thing is proofread and sealed and witnessed and it’s done. It’s _done._

Senju and Uchiha alike breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Hashirama sends everyone who’s still there home after that. He’s in a sort of daze, and he can’t seem to bring himself to deal with people right now. There’s still plenty of work to be done, anyway, and it’s best to get everyone out of the way before they start—he and Madara need to refine the terms, to divide up territories and designate neutral ones, to settle the matter of reparations, to figure out how the hell they’re going to actually build this village of theirs. What would Butsuma Senju say if he could see this? Hashirama feels giddy and defiant and shaky, but maybe he just needs to eat. Or sleep. Or both.

Tobirama barely knows what to do with himself.

He paces back and forth across the tent, his chin sunk into his chest, stealing the occasional glance at both of them—Madara half-propped up on the cot with blood matted into his hair, Hashirama perched next to him transcribing the truce onto a cleaner scroll. Hashirama looks up from his work and watches his brother’s progress across the tent, frowning.

“Tobirama,” he says.

Tobirama stops.

Hashirama holds out the newly updated truce. “Bring this to the compound, will you? Before too many absurd rumors start to fly.”

Tobirama is silent. He shoots Hashirama a look that clearly reads, _And leave you alone with him?_

“Go on,” Hashirama says. “It’s all right. Take the message to the compound. They’ll want to hear it from you.”

Tobirama hesitates, one hand on the tent flap. His eyes flicker from Hashirama to Madara.

“The medics are still here, anyway,” Hashirama says, although they’ve made themselves scarce; half the Senju medical unit is out on the now-abandoned battlefield, gathering more supplies from the corpses. The remaining handful of medics in the tent look—well—wary. They kneel by Madara’s feet, unwilling to meet his eyes directly.

Madara _is_ injured, though, and silent. Worse than the silence is the blank fear, the deceptively serene sense of quiet dread radiating from him. They both watch Tobirama go, still silently sitting in each other's company. Hashirama has never seen him like this before—has never seen him look so _lost_. Madara always looks like he knows precisely what he’s doing even if he doesn’t really; even while they were enemies, Hashirama had always admired him for that. Now Madara’s shaking slightly on the cot, gloved hands twisting in his lap, mouth set in a grim line. His eyes are glassy, unblinking, completely emotionless.

Really he looks about as tired as Hashirama feels. But for Hashirama it’s a good sort of tired, a sort of satisfied exhaustion. Bitter, yes, from all the casualties up until this point—but still. Hashirama is ready to sleep for about thirty years. And, better yet, he feels as if he _can_ sleep now. Something about the pair of them in their tent together is overwhelmingly safe and calm and comforting; it’s _Madara,_ it’s his best friend and they’re no longer at war and his presence is different now, just a little bit, now that these are Izuna’s eyes in his skull—but Madara doesn’t have enough chakra to activate his sharingan right now, much less the mangekyou, so it’s barely noticeable. It’s Madara. It’s him and it feels like coming home.

The silence wears on them both after a while. Hashirama knows Madara is looking at him and then looking away, but neither of them want to speak. What do you say to someone you’ve been waging war with for most of your adult life? Hashirama has never been in this situation before—never imagined Madara would let this situation happen.

Madara breaks the silence first.

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” he says. The Senju medics are still hovering around him with gauze and bandages, hesitant to touch his skin.

“Yours too,” says Hashirama, acutely aware of how pitiful this contribution is.

“But I see your dress sense hasn’t improved at all. _Enough,”_ Madara says to the swarming medics, snatching his bloody arm out of their reach. He looks about ready to breathe fire again.

The medics retreat, and Madara’s face softens. Or, rather, the angry fire in his eyes fades away, and that horrible emptiness settles in again. He gives a quiet whispery sigh, and Hashirama moves closer to him, gesturing towards his bad arm. “May I?” he says quietly.

Weary, Madara nods.

Hashirama closes his eyes. He can feel Madara’s chakra give a dark hot flicker as he touches his arm with the tips of his fingers. Healing has always come naturally to Hashirama; it’s logical—it’s _right._ He can feel all of Madara’s jangled nerve endings, his firing neurons, the stale blood pooling underneath his skin where he was hit. His chakra maps out like the canopy of a tree, following the framework of his blood—arteries flowing to thousands of blood vessels to countless tiny capillaries, many of them damaged and crushed. Hashirama lets his own chakra seep slowly into Madara’s bloodstream; this isn’t the most conventional or efficient method of healing and he knows it, but he wants to be thorough; he wants to feel every bit of Madara he can reach, if he’ll let him; he wants to reassure himself that Madara is complicated and miraculous and _alive_ , right now: his lungs working, muscles layered on bone, his heart beating securely within his ribcage, every cell in his body thriving and healing and pulsing with life.

As he works he feels Madara’s heartbeat slow to a more relaxed pace and it fills him with profound relief to know that Madara is calmer now at least partly because of his actions. At one point Madara actually makes a small satisfied sound in his throat, and then tries to pass it off as a cough. Hashirama laughs quietly at the familiarity of the noise, pressing his fingertips gently to Madara’s sides.

Madara’s heartbeat speeds up again almost immediately, and he winces as Hashirama applies his palm to his ribcage.

“Oh—don't,” he says. “Don't waste your chakra on a fractured rib.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Hashirama. “It’s completely shattered. A fragment could puncture your lung.” There's a snapping sound, and a buzz of chakra, and the rib is whole again. Hashirama splays his fingers across Madara’s chest, feeling for more damage, but Madara draws back, curling in on himself, crossing his arms and bringing his knees up to his chest. When he speaks next, it's oddly strained.

“Wait,” he says, and Hashirama takes his hands off him immediately, lets his chakra fade back into his palms. Madara clenches and unclenches his fists. He takes a breath. He takes another.

“Just,” Madara says, looking very lost again. “Just—keep going. The way you were before.”

Hashirama flounders for a few moments, trying to remember where he left off. “Right,” he says. “Well…”

He removes Madara’s gloves, as gently as he can, watching his face for signs of distress—something that says _don’t touch me anymore,_ _don’t sit next to me while I’m so vulnerable, don’t look at this side of me—_ and hoping (rather selfishly, he admits) that he won’t see any doubt in Madara’s face. After all, Madara was the one who pushed him away, the one who denounced their dream first. But he also remembers how Madara had reached up despite the pain and stopped Hashirama’s kunai from hitting its mark; he remembers the desperation on his face, how Madara’s gloved fingers had crushed his own.

Madara is watching his face again, looking into his eyes, his own eyes feverishly taking in every single inch of Hashirama as if he’s afraid he’ll vanish the instant he looks away. He winces as the gloves come off.        

“How are you feeling?” Hashirama says.

Madara scoffs, eyes half-lidded. “As if any second now, I’m going to wake up and we’re still going to be at war with each other,” he says.

Hashirama lays his hand on top of Madara’s and gives his fingers a little squeeze. He hasn’t seen Madara with his gloves off for the better part of a decade, and for a moment Hashirama thinks that his hands look pale and foreign without them. He has such lovely hands, though, all scarred and spindly, with deft calloused fingers. His fingernails are chipped and caked with blood—it must be old, and it’s not his, Hashirama can tell—and one thumbnail is missing entirely.

Hashirama concentrates, and Madara’s thumbnail slowly regrows. Madara stares at it, blinks several times, and Hashirama realizes that Madara has never seen his chakra at work like this before—for years and years now Madara has only seen deadly green branches plunging into flesh, gouging skin and twisting bones apart; now Hashirama is healing him and his chakra is no longer a force of livid destruction.

(And, Hashirama remembers, fire gives way to new fledgeling forests.)

“Hashirama,” Madara says abruptly, sounding dazed.

Hashirama smiles on instinct. “Hmm?”

“I—we’re doing this. This is real. We can—” He gestures wordlessly for several seconds, staring at a spot somewhere past Hashirama’s shoulder, but Hashirama understands. “This is—this is _hundreds_ of years of war, and we just—” He gives a sort of weak, humorless laugh. “Imagine if our fathers could see this.”

Hashirama grimaces, but his eyes are lighting up. So they are still on the same wavelength, after all. “Don’t even say that,” he says, “the shock would probably kill them all over again.”


	5. Chapter 5

(c)

There is nothing more beautiful, Madara thinks, than a falcon just before a stoop. He has seen it happen many times. The bird halts in midair, impossibly high, and holds there—poised, immobile, hanging at the edge of its invisible precipice. Then it plummets. It is a living missile: hunched wings, curved back, feet flat against its body, head rounded, beak gleaming; the bird drops faster than any normal eyes can follow and it carves a streaking spiral into the sky, and just before it plunges into the ground it lifts its wings and spreads them wide to catch the air once more.

Pulling out of that mad dive, Madara thinks, and returning to that steady gliding state, is the most agonizing part to watch.

* * *

 

5.

Hashirama makes Madara feel vulnerable and exposed and emotional and he _hates_ it, hates feeling like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest every time he looks at Hashirama’s face, hates the way his jaw goes slack every time he sees Hashirama smile.

It is far worse than he had once thought. A long time ago he had convinced himself that he was only in love with the idea of Hashirama. Now, being close to him, being next to him, hearing him talk and feeling his chakra and watching his face, is almost more than he can stand.

Madara loves Hashirama's not-quite-lisp and the way his voice goes all quiet and serious sometimes and the way his sparkling eyes become dark and intense. He loves his warm hands and his long soft hair and his broad back, his booming laugh and the way he sits with his legs crossed beneath him and his chin lifted slightly. He loves when Hashirama puts his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, and he loves when Hashirama allows himself those small frustrated sighs when he thinks no one else is watching. He loves the way Hashirama piles his hair up on top of his head to get it out of the way, the way his fingers dance as they tuck the last dark wisps behind his ears; he loves the solid strength of his forearms as his sleeves fall back to his elbows.

Last night’s rainstorms have cleared away, leaving broad pale sweeping skies in their wake, and Madara meets Hashirama by the village gates before the sun rises and they set out towards the top of the cliff together. Lately they’ve been walking together, at least once a week if they can manage it, but they’re almost always together otherwise, meeting with engineers and clan leaders and street vendors and workers and representatives of large foreign organizations. Village-building, it turns out, is a long and intricate process, and not one, Madara will admit, that they were entirely prepared for when they started. The whole ordeal is unbelievable and terrifying and exhilarating and there is _nowhere_ on earth Madara would rather be than right here, in the early morning shade of the trees by the temporary village gates, at Hashirama’s side. His constant warm presence is nearly a miracle.

On their way up through the forest they pass by a muddy ditch on the side of the path. Hashirama points at a set of tiny bare footprints at its center and beams up at Madara through the early morning dimness and Madara smiles too, unable to stop himself, both for Hashirama and the child.

“Small steps,” Hashirama says, and Madara laughs at the double meaning, then fights the urge to bury his face in his hands and never come out ever again. That wasn’t even—Hashirama isn’t even trying to be _funny._

It’s too early for breakfast, so they keep climbing. The path twists over little clearings, weaves through glades full of gilded ferns, circles around a little pond that’s barely graduated from being a puddle. Hashirama keeps reaching down to pluck stray nails out of the path, and now he rescues a struggling emerald dragonfly from the water, speaking gently to it as he lets it rest on his warm wide hand to dry its wings. It flies in a circle around both of them before taking off down the mountain, towards the village. They both watch it until it skims around a corner and vanishes.

They climb higher with the sun, and now the morning light is spotted and golden against the widening path. Up here the trees are shorter and thinner, all gnarled wooden shoulders hunched down against the morning wind. A feather, black and white with a red tip, floats down from somewhere far away, and Madara reaches up, plucks it out of the air, and pockets it. The clifftop is within view now.

It feels so…so _wonderful_ to be at peace. Madara has never known this kind of calm before, this overwhelming feeling of leisure and tranquility, and he wants to stop in the middle of the path and stretch out in a sunny spot on the ground and sit up here with Hashirama all day.

Almost immediately, he remembers the folder full of paperwork waiting for him back at the makeshift Uchiha compound, and casts a worried glance back down the mountain; Hashirama notices him looking and turns around too, but then a great wind rises up from the slope of the cliff and weaves through Madara’s hair, lifting it back from his face. Madara squints, and then closes his eyes entirely. He can hear Hashirama breathing quietly next to him. There is a sound like thousands of whispers, which is really thousands of leaves brushing against each other in the wind, and as he stands by Hashirama’s side on the path to the clifftop Madara thinks he has never heard a more beautiful sound in his life.

Madara opens his eyes as the wind dies down, and finds that Hashirama has closed his own eyes and is leaning slightly into the breeze, his clothes rippling, long dark hair turning gold in the shifting patches of sunlight. He looks strange and serious with his eyes closed, and Madara is spellbound and disgusted and breathless.

They walk the rest of the way up to the cliff. The village—well, about five tents and several skeletal wooden frames right now—is splayed out below them in the forest. They can hear the distant sound of hammers tapping against wood—it’s later than Madara had thought, if the morning construction has already started. Beside him, Hashirama sits down on the cliff and slowly crosses his legs.

“It looks very small, from up here,” Hashirama says, smiling wryly up at him. “To think that all the work we’ve done has only produced this much so far...”

A hawk—not one of his—goes past them, streaking over their heads towards the direction of the village. They watch it circle several times before it disappears on the horizon, wings paper-thin against the brilliant sky.

Hashirama turns back to the village, the smile fading from his face. Madara sits down too. Their hands are close enough to be touching. He quickly shoves this thought away.

“It’s my favorite view in the world, you know,” Hashirama says quietly, and Madara watches his eyes light up with a fierce glowing pride as he gazes down over the tents. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“I like this view better,” Madara says unthinkingly, before he can stop himself, and then seriously considers flinging himself off the cliff before Hashirama can work out what he’s just said. He can feel his face bypassing red and going straight to magenta. Luckily Hashirama seems to not have heard him, or maybe he’s misunderstood, so Madara quickly tries to amend the situation by steering the conversation in a safer direction.

“I used to come here a lot,” Madara says, “back then.”

Hashirama’s entire face lights up and Madara feels like he’s melting into a puddle. _“Really?”_ Hashirama says, as if this is the most incredulous thing in the world. “Me too!”

Another hawk, probably the mate of the first, lifts off from the tree where it had been perched, and with powerful and silent wingbeats, joins its partner in the sky. Madara tilts his head to watch. He takes a breath, lets it out, takes another.

“I always wondered if you still thought about me,” Hashirama says.

Madara scowls. “Of course I did,” he says. “I thought about you every day.”

Swallows dive from their cliffside nests towards the pair of hawks, their wings glinting like blue jewels as they weave about in midair. At once the morning is full of their noisy bubbly chatter. Madara wonders if he’s said too much. Hashirama is staring down at the cliff, tracing a circle into the dirt with one thumb.

“So did I,” he says at last, and he looks up at Madara and gives him a decidedly watery smile. Madara backtracks, lifting his hands in appeasement. Hashirama’s mouth is quivering dangerously.

“Don’t cry,” Madara says, “we’re not at war anymore.”

“I know,” Hashirama says, and his smile broadens until he’s beaming at Madara like he’s the most important person in the world, and Madara is in heaven, he’s in _heaven_ , and Hashirama’s fingers are reaching towards his hair and he’s leaning forward and tilting his head and Madara feels his heart give a great frantic leap in his chest—Hashirama is so _close_ —he could count his eyelashes—

“Wait,” Hashirama says, frowning, and then: “Hold still.”

The warm fingers pinch a lock of Madara’s hair, and then Hashirama is combing through the tangles and gently removing the dead leaf that’s gotten stuck next to Madara’s ear. Madara makes a noise that’s dangerously close to a whimper. Hashirama’s fingers are retreating, curling back into a fist.

“Please don’t be offended,” Hashirama continues, turning the leaf over in his palm. “But you look much better lately. Not that you didn’t look good before! I mean—not _good_ , like _—_ you know—you just look…not _bad_ —you never looked _bad—_ you look better than you did back then,” he says quickly, his face going pink. “More…better.”

Madara smirks. “Give me a moment,” he says, “let me decide whether I should be offended or not.”

Hashirama snaps his fingers. “Younger!” he says, tossing the dead leaf behind them. “That’s what I meant. You look younger.”

 _“Younger?”_ Madara laughs. “Stuck with you?”

But, Madara thinks, there is some truth to Hashirama’s babbling, just like there always is…he’s smiling more now, laughing more, eating regular square meals—most of them with Hashirama, actually—and, most importantly, he’s finally got something to occupy his mind with, something that’s not crushing guilt and constant warfare; destruction has turned to unadulterated creation. Even this morning, on the path up the mountain—there are two pairs of footprints instead of one, two separate entities combining to build this village.

Izuna never got to see this view.

_(Protect your clan, Madara!)_

Izuna never got to see the swallows and the hawks and the colorful tents and the shimmering green expanse of the forest; he never got to see all the people coming out of their tents and their makeshift shelters, setting up shop and cooking over miniature fires and gathering in little clusters on the uneven streets.

Madara resolves to appreciate the village doubly now, for both of them.

“Hey,” Hashirama is saying, as if from far away. A kingfisher trills, somewhere down the mountain. The sound brings Madara back to the present.

“Huh?” he says, intelligently.

“Breakfast,” Hashirama says, “let’s get breakfast,” and no idea has ever sounded better to Madara.

On their way down the mountain Hashirama points out all the ferns and the shrubs and the orchids and little wildflowers by the side of the path, and he introduces them all to Madara as if they are his family and he knows them all personally, and Madara _loves_ it.

He knows, realistically, that Hashirama will never be with him—not in the way that he wants. But Madara decides that, maybe, this is a good thing. Hashirama makes him irrational, makes him mad with longing. Hashirama is _intoxicating._ On their way back into the village their hands brush together as they walk, and Madara’s breath catches in his throat and he has to stop and collect himself and readjust his tunic without Hashirama noticing.

If Hashirama ever actually kissed him, he thinks he might physically die.

He can’t have that. He loves Hashirama. This, right now—this loving him from afar—is enough. This is quite enough.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Madara still eats like he doesn't know where his next meal is coming from. He descends upon his breakfast like a bird of prey, ravenous, and then halfway through his bowl he seems to realize what he's doing and slows down considerably. Hashirama watches him with mild amusement, pleased to note that Madara is comfortable enough around him to forego all those preconceived notions of the cold and austere clan leader Madara Uchiha, all-powerful and uncaring, at least for a little while.

He meant what he had said. Ever since the truce, day by day, Madara has begun to look more and more alive. It’s a blessing to see him smiling after so long. Hashirama remembers how Madara used to show up to battles gray-faced and dead-eyed, and his heart feels heavy, as if a pair of hands are crushing it.

Hashirama sets down his spoon and puts his chin in his hand. Madara has _no one._ All he’s got is the bitter lingering memory of four dead siblings and a distrustful clan skulking in his wake. Hashirama knows just how deeply he poured his heart into protecting the Uchiha during the war—he knows how fiercely he still cares, even during peacetime; he knows that as the days go on, Madara can’t watch over the Uchiha without markedly separating himself from them at the same time.

Madara has been lonely for a long time. He has no one to turn to now. Hashirama wants to _be_ that person for Madara, he thinks; he wants to be the person Madara can rely on without fail, he wants to be there when Madara feels hopeless and isolated, if Madara wants him. The thought floods him. He’s grinning down at the sunlit breakfast table, unable to stop, and then Madara notices and smiles one of his small half-smiles at him and there’s a rice noodle stuck in his hair, right at the level of his chin.

* * *

“You know you’re essentially courting him, right,” Tobirama says with supreme disdain, the next time Hashirama asks Madara out to dinner.

Hashirama throws his head back and laughs, because that idea is completely absurd; Madara is his best friend and just being with him like this, with both of them on the same side, is enough to flood him with inexpressible joy. Hashirama is so proud of them both; he’s so glad they’re both here together. He stirs the vegetables around in the pan, perhaps more vigorously than Tobirama considers acceptable, and a half-cooked carrot lands squarely on the floor.

Tobirama sighs for a long time.

“I’ll take that as a confession,” he says, setting the table for two.

* * *

Late in that first autumn, a deep, bitter cold settles in overnight, and a particularly potent strain of the flu sweeps through the newly-built village. There is a wet chill in the air when Hashirama wakes up that morning, and a sort of freezing gray mist is spreading through the streets as he gets dressed, but Hashirama isn’t worried; he never gets sick. He arrives at the office early and boils a pot of tea in the tiny kitchen and puts food out for the cat and gathers his robes around himself and goes to read his overflowing in-tray before the morning crowd appears, only to discover a persistent ache behind his eyes as soon as he opens the first scroll. This is followed by a rather troubling soreness spreading through his throat and nose. With impeccable timing, a cascade of rain begins its assault on the roof, coming down in icy sheets.

When Tobirama arrives at the office with Madara at his heels, Hashirama’s hands are shaking and he’s been reading the same sentence in the newest soil quality report for fifteen minutes. He’s fine. He’s not sick. He never gets sick. Madara looks dubious. He pointedly hangs up his wet cloak on top of Tobirama’s, so that the largest amount of water possible will drip onto it. Tobirama mutters something about needing to check the front desk, and they hear him grumbling to himself all the way down the hallway.

“Just go home, Hashirama,” Madara is saying, barely an hour later. He’s perched cross-legged on the side of the desk, thumbing through potential evacuation route proposals, a cup of cold black coffee abandoned next to him by the in-tray. Cold rain lashes at the window.

Hashirama sniffs and drags his damp sleeve across his nose, ignoring Madara’s wince of mild disgust. “Office is closed today,” he says. “Might as well stay and work while no one’s here.”

“Work from home!” Madara says, as if this is the most obvious solution in the world, which Hashirama supposes it is. “Or—even better—take a nap, Hashirama, you’re coming apart around the ears.”

Hashirama laughs. His throat hurts. “If I go home, I’ll have to clean my desk,” he says.

“I’ll make you a pot of tea. Is that too much?”

“ _Really,_ Madara, I’m fine,” Hashirama says. “I’ve never gotten sick in my life.” He _has_ passed out from overuse of the mokuton, though, and he’s been using that quite frequently lately, building houses and shelters and walls and gardens. Even as he speaks, the area behind his eyes gives an ill-timed throb, and he puts his head in his hands. “I’d take a cup of tea, though,” he admits.

“Don’t move,” Madara says, giving Hashirama a warning look. His hair looks more… _bristly_ than usual. He leaps off the desk and goes into the kitchen next door and puts the kettle on. Hashirama can hear him rummaging through the cabinets, cursing.

The more Hashirama thinks about it, the more surreal and miraculous it is that the same Madara Uchiha everybody talks about is actually here, in this tragically mundane office with him, filling out paperwork and making him tea and sitting on his desk. He’s really _here._ Their story could have ended in blood and fire and tears about a thousand times, but it just—it _didn’t._ It’s wonderful.

 “Thank you, Madara,” Hashirama says as Madara passes him a teacup and climbs back onto the desk, but he means to say a lot more.

He feels much less sick by the end of the day, thankfully. By nightfall, the skies are clearing, and stars are beginning to appear, winking against the firmament. Tonight feels like an important night. Hashirama wants a drink.

“I’m going to go spend some money,” he announces to Tobirama and Madara as he locks the office. “Care to join me?”

Madara shakes his head—of course—but Tobirama is gathering his things. “I’ll meet you there,” he says, lips twitching. “And do spend your own money this time, will you?”

Hashirama smiles at Madara as they step outside together. The night air is blessedly cool against Hashirama’s face. He won’t pretend he’s not a _little_ disappointed that Madara isn’t coming with him yet again, but such is life. “You know where I’ll be,” Hashirama says, “if you change your mind.” 

* * *

He doesn't mean to stay out as late as he does, especially in his current state. Five drinks later, or maybe four, but he’s lost count now—either way it’s more than he should have had, and more money than he should have spent—Hashirama is serene and warm and drunk and comfortably numb, sitting quite still at the end of the counter with his chin resting on one hand. The world has gone blurred at the edges, the way watercolors bleed into wet paper. It’s stiflingly hot at the bar, and Hashirama feels as if he is being slowly smothered by pipe smoke and trailing garments, all fine sleeves and long fraying hems and neatly stitched clan symbols: Sarutobi, Senju, Yamanaka. _Drinking together like brothers,_ Hashirama remembers, and a smile slowly spreads across his face, amplified by the hot room and the alcohol. He misses Madara. There are no Uchihas at this bar; they have their own place—well, Madara doesn’t go to any of the bars (such a shame), and Hashirama really wishes he was here. He looks around. He’s lost Tobirama somewhere in the crowd, but he thinks he’s probably too drunk to try and find him right now. Actually he’s probably the most drunk he's been in a while. This is confirmed when he goes to stand up to let a crowd of new arrivals pass through to the bar and the floor lurches up at him. Hashirama stumbles into the wall and knocks over someone’s glass with a flailing arm—he can almost hear the village parents explaining to their children in a few days’ time that the esteemed leader of the Senju clan is in fact a good-for-nothing drunken layabout—he can’t convince his eyes to focus; the room keeps getting darker.

Then Madara’s actually _there,_ his chakra sparking against Hashirama’s own, safe and scalding. Hashirama breathes in and it’s Madara’s familiar smell, smoke and sweat and wool and leather and another thing he can never quite place, a bittersweet sort of warmth. And then Madara’s hands are cupping his face, brushing his hair out of his eyes; one arm reaches around, pressing into his shoulder—their bodies are colliding, Hashirama’s back resting solidly against Madara’s side—Madara’s hands are cold and pale and miraculous and Hashirama’s face is painfully hot.

“Madara?” he says, knowing precisely who it is but wanting to hear Madara say it himself. _Yes, I’m here, Hashirama, it’s me._

“Yeah,” Madara says roughly, and his grip tightens on Hashirama’s shoulder, steering him away from the bar. “Let’s get out of here, get you to bed, Hashirama, come on.”

Hashirama’s heart leaps. Some sort of drunken appreciation is blossoming in his chest, a great rush of affection, admiration, awe. Madara. _Madara_ is here. It’s really him.

Hashirama tells him so. “It’s really you,” he says, beaming. “That’s wonderful. That’s just so _wonderful._ You’re…you’re the _best.”_ He jabs an index finger into the center of Madara’s chest as he speaks. “I really love you, Madara, I love you so much, I’m so glad you’re here with me. Thank you so much for everything, I’m so glad you’re—That’s amazing, that’s—that’s—”

He can’t stop; his mouth keeps moving without his express permission, and the words keep pouring out. “I just love you _so_ much, Madara,” he says once more, and he rests his head on Madara’s shoulder and twists his fingers through Madara’s hair (and it’s _soft!)_ and lets his eyes slide closed.

Madara stops dead in the middle of the bar. His hold on Hashirama’s shoulder is painful now. But there’s no time to dwell on this strange reaction because moments later Hashirama realizes he really, really has to vomit.

He shares this information with Madara, who makes a strangled, uncharacteristically helpless sort of noise in the back of his throat before dragging Hashirama outside.

It’s sort of poetic, Hashirama thinks dizzily. Here they both are, the two most powerful people in the world, childhood friends turned enemies turned allies, two halves of the driving force that combined against all odds in order to turn war into peace, and Madara is holding Hashirama’s hair out of his face as he heaves into the gutter in this village that they created together, as equals.


	7. Chapter 7

(d)

_I love you, Madara._

_I really love you, Madara. I love you so much._

He casts one last look back at Hashirama’s sleeping form and he does not kiss his forehead as he leaves, because what is the _point_ if Hashirama can’t agree to it too, can’t experience it with him.

Hashirama is _killing_ him.

* * *

 

7.

Hashirama wakes up to a single ray of dazzling late-autumn sunlight catching him directly in the left eye, and finds that he has no idea how he managed to get home. There is a gaping hole where his memories of the previous night’s activities should be, and someone has tucked Hashirama so securely into his own blankets that he thinks he could stay bundled up on his futon like this for the next six years. These two things Hashirama realizes in unison, and he licks his too-dry lips and experimentally turns his head to one side, so that his face is out of the sun. There is a jolt of incredible pain against his temples and he gives a halfhearted groan and assembles his limbs into a sitting position and resolves to assess the situation more thoroughly.

His solitude feels like a real physical presence, hanging over him like an overlarge shadow, pressing in on his chest until breathing is nearly a chore. He remembers the bar, and he remembers Madara appearing, and then absolutely nothing.

Madara brought him home, Hashirama thinks, in a moment of nearly divine inspiration. And Madara must have put him to bed. All of this he has no memory of whatsoever, but he remembers losing Tobirama at the bar, and he _definitely_ remembers Madara arriving soon after.

Relief floods him, followed by nearly palpable sadness, no doubt amplified by his headache. Madara brought him home and—and then he left. He’s so far away now, all the way at his own house, and the amount of effort it would take to get up and dress himself and go and find him is nearly more than Hashirama can bear to think about. He wants Madara to step through the doorway from the sitting room and say, _good morning, Hashirama,_ or even _I hope you’re not still drunk, Hashirama,_ or, more realistically, _Good, you’re awake, now you had better thank me for dragging your sorry ass home after last night, Hashirama._ He just—he really misses Madara, all right, he misses their banter and their quiet shared smirks and and the way Madara’s eyes light up across the conference table when Hashirama makes faces at him during meetings.

When Tobirama stops by to check in on him several hours later he’s sitting around in a nemaki, teasing a rare snarl out of his hair and slowly gathering the will to move.

“I told the planning board that you’re still ill,” Tobirama says, bringing him a glass of water from the sink. “Although, looking at you, I suppose that isn’t terribly far from the truth.”

“Thank you,” Hashirama says quietly. It takes several tries for his voice to work, and clearing his throat sends a dull throb of pain through his head.

Tobirama looks very much as if he’d like to say something, but he reconsiders at the last second. He fiddles with a loose thread on his sleeve. They are both silent for the better part of a minute.

“Have you seen Madara?” Hashirama says abruptly, his heart giving a strange leap as he says the name.

Tobirama’s nostrils flare magnificently. Hashirama groans.

 _“Well,”_ Tobirama begins, crossing his arms so tightly that Hashirama wonders if he’ll ever be able to get them undone, “I personally haven’t. According to the noise complaints, however—of which there are several, waiting for you in the office—some time after he dropped you off here, he returned to the bar, got flaming drunk, shouted at sixteen different people, and then vanished around dawn. Have a word with him when you’re feeling up to it, will you? He’s getting out of hand.”

Amidst the headache, Hashirama feels a vague hot fear rising in his throat. Madara—Madara does not drink. He didn’t drink the night of the peace treaty. He didn't drink the day of the alliance ceremony, and he didn't drink the day Konoha opened its gates for the first time. If there’s anything Madara fears, it’s the loss of control. Hashirama knows this. He needs to know where everything is; he needs to know exactly what he’s doing now and what he’s doing next; he needs constant regularity and influence and order, or else he spirals into—well, whatever you’d call this, Hashirama supposes. Madara making a conscious choice to relinquish control over his senses—this is not good.

Tobirama is still standing there with his arms crossed, surveying Hashirama’s face. “At least he had the decency to bring you here,” he says. “When I went to get you last night you both had already left.”

Hashirama’s stomach turns over. After he blacked out, did he say something…terrible to Madara last night that somehow drove him past the breaking point? Did he— _do_ something? Is this somehow his fault?

“I’ll drop by the office in half an hour,” he says resignedly, massaging his temples, “and see if he’s there.” Tobirama’s frowning, but he seems reasonably satisfied. He closes the door with surprising gentleness as Hashirama slithers off his futon and seizes the edge of his desk for support.

Hashirama’s eyebrows shoot up and he laughs. The desk—Madara must have cleaned his desk before he left. A month’s worth of scattered papers are now stacked in neat piles, each one organized by date. Scrolls are in their bin. His brush pens are pristine, looking cleaner than they have in years. He left the ink spots on the wooden desk, though, and the wobbly chair is still propped up with a folded scrap of paper. Hashirama feels a sudden surge of affection for Madara, and then another pang of worry.

What on earth did he do last night, to put Madara in such a state?

* * *

Madara isn’t at his house that afternoon, and he isn’t at the office, either. Nor is he there the following day, or the day after that. He asks an exasperated Tobirama, who can’t detect his chakra within the boundaries of the village.

“He's not _gone,”_ Tobirama reassures him on that third morning, more irritated than usual because he’s catching Hashirama’s flu. “He fed the cat. He must have come early this morning, before anyone else was here.”

Hashirama looks. The office cat emerges from around the doorway and slinks around Tobirama's ankles, sated and purring. Tobirama deposits his mountain of paperwork on Hashirama’s desk, blows his nose, and leaves.

It’s like a constant ache. He wants Madara to want to be with him. He wants Madara’s respect and admiration; he wants to see Madara smile and know that it’s his doing, that it’s Hashirama who softened his face, made those smile lines appear around his eyes, made him laugh—he remembers Madara’s wheezing laugh and another heavy feeling of loneliness settles in his chest, putting out roots that tangle around his heart.

Madara's hard to pin down, hard to encapsulate, which makes him that much more interesting, and the only thing Hashirama wants right now is for Madara to reappear so that he can apologize for whatever he did that night while he was drunk. He remembers back when they were just two children on a riverbank, how sometimes whole months would go by and they wouldn’t see each other. Hashirama can’t even imagine spending a month apart from Madara now. It feels _wrong,_ it’s just—it’s him and Madara, they’ve been together since the truce and now they’re _not._

At least he knows Madara’s not dead.

* * *

“Sorry I’m late,” Hashirama had said, a long time ago, by the river. He could just see the back of Madara’s head through the trees. Madara looked up and turned around, relief flooding his face.

“There you are, Hashirama,” he said, determinedly casual. “I knew you hadn’t gotten yourself killed.”

“Never!” Hashirama had called down breathlessly, skidding down a steep spot on the riverbank and landing with his arms outstretched before Madara. His errands for Butsuma had taken longer than he had expected. He noticed, privately, that Madara looked like he had been crying.

“I’m sick,” Madara said quickly, as if he had read Hashirama’s mind, and gave a great sniff to demonstrate.

Hashirama smiled rather deviously. “Oh,” he said. “Then we had better not go swimming at the cave today. Might be too strenuous.”

“NO!” Madara shouted. “I mean, I’m mostly better. I think—” He gave an experimental cough. “I think that was the last of it.”

Hashirama grinned. “Hey!” he said. “Let’s make a secret code to communicate! That way you won’t have to worry in case I don’t show up.” (Although he would never admit this to Madara, he had in fact cried for the better part of an afternoon when Madara didn’t turn up at the riverbank several weeks ago.) “Stack two stones at the spot if we're alive, and—”

“And one if we're dead?” Madara had laughed.

* * *

Hashirama steels his nerves and resolves to talk to Madara in the morning, early. A plan is already forming in his head...he’ll sleep in the office, at the desk, and Madara will come in to feed the cat and they’ll _have_ to run into each other, then.

He _will_ apologize to Madara, for…for whatever he did that night.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Dawn arrives.

Hashirama stirs sleepily in his chair. His neck is stiff. He must have fallen asleep at his desk…the light outside the office window is pale and gray. He can hear footsteps. It’s barely daybreak and someone is in the office—that can’t be right; nobody is supposed to be here yet. Open hours don’t start for quite some time. Strange.

Hashirama’s eyes snap open. One second he is comfortably hovering between wakefulness and sleep; the next, he’s alert, primed, muscles tense and ready. He sits upright in one fluid movement and draws a kunai from his pouch, ready to defend himself. Then he remembers that this is the village office and Madara is here, _finally,_ crouching in the doorway and petting the office cat, and he’s supposed to be explaining himself to Madara, not waving deadly weapons at him.

_Madara is here._

The cat turns tail and takes off down the hallway. Hashirama’s elbow slips off the desk. It’s really him! The plan worked! Madara’s own face completely drains of all color as he realizes what’s going on, and he stands up, knees creaking, and disappears around the door with his cloak flapping behind him, all subtlety forgotten.

 _“Madara!”_ Hashirama shouts, practically leaping over the desk in his hurry to get to him before he closes the door. “Madara, _wait!_ I’m sorry about what happened, I was an irresponsible fool, I didn’t mean to—to do whatever I did, I…”

The adrenaline is wearing off, rapidly giving way to panic. Now that Madara is actually here in front of him, he doesn’t know what to say. They’re both standing in the doorway—Hashirama catches the door and eases it closed so it doesn’t slam—and a white mist is sliding slowly over the village, turning the abandoned street before them into a vague opaline blur.

It’s an astoundingly accurate representation of the lack of mental activity occuring in Hashirama’s brain right now. Madara is leaving; Hashirama follows him down the street, jogging to catch up.

“Please wait! What did I do?” he says, dreading the answer. “It must have been…really bad.”

Madara’s eyebrows are steadily rising. His mouth is the thinnest Hashirama has ever seen it; his jaw is clenched. They round a corner and Hashirama gathers his haori around him, shivering.

“But thank you for bringing me home. And cleaning my desk. And putting me to bed…” Hashirama sighs. “You didn’t have to do all that. I’m sorry. Again.”

They both stop walking, then. It’s a cold morning, and the sky is blindingly gray. Madara searches Hashirama’s face in utter confusion, frowning. Hashirama shudders—not just from the cold—and crosses his arms. He can see his breath.

Madara turns away, looking rather lost. He stares up at the sky for a little while, his eyes glazing over.

“I'm sorry too,” he says, finally, still looking at the sky, and Hashirama’s chest gives a little flutter at hearing Madara speak for the first time in several days. “I didn’t mean to stay away for so long. I had meant to come back sooner, but I…”

He trails off, and the crease between his eyebrows deepens even further. He sighs. Hashirama hasn’t seen him this tired and lost and confused since the day they signed the truce. He wants to wrap Madara in a blanket and put him to bed, so that they can be even again. But even as this thought occurs to him, Madara is turning on his heel, holding his head in one hand, and continuing down the still-dim street.

“Let me make it up to you,” Hashirama insists, following after him once more. He notes, though, that Madara is only halfheartedly trying to run away now.

“No.” Madara bites his lip. “No, it’s all right. Just—just…”

He goes quiet. They’ve arrived in front of Madara's house. Madara looks like he has no idea how he got here. He considers Hashirama, who is now hopping up and down gently to restore warmth to his legs—the fabric of his pants is way too thin for a morning as cold as this one—and then he swallows and takes a deep breath and speaks.

“Well, come in,” he says, matter-of-factly, and opens the front door.

Hashirama blows into his cupped hands. “Are you sure?”

“Come on, Hashirama,” Madara says, so Hashirama follows him.

Hashirama has always thought that if he treads the wrong way in Madara’s house, some ancient slumbering beast will awaken from centuries of sleep and rise up out of the floorboards to smite him. Walking in the place feels invasive, sacred almost. Hashirama hasn’t been in here for months, but he built it himself, and he recognizes the familiar slope of the walls, the bend that leads to the kitchen—well, barely a kitchen; it’s a cabinet and a counter and a dusty kettle perched on a modest hearth. Madara did not want a large house. Hashirama’s skin prickles. The structure is familiar, but it feels as if it’s been warped somehow.

He can tell Madara hasn’t been in here for a few days, from the way the floor creaks as they step inside and the drawn curtains hang heavy with dust. The walls are nearly barren. There is a painted wooden mask hanging over the desk, and a small hand mirror on the mantle. This is not a lived-in house. Hashirama is fairly certain that Madara only really comes here to sleep.

“Hold on,” Madara says. Hashirama doesn’t see what happens, but one second it’s gray and dim, and the next second all the lamps are lit and smoke is trailing from Madara’s fingertips.

Madara cuts a striking figure in the glow from the lamps, standing there with his long wild hair and his face half in shadow. Hashirama can just imagine boiling clouds of writhing chakra and feathers and beaks and talons bursting from his back, stabbing into the air. With unpleasant distinctness, he remembers the outlandish rumors that used to go around about the Uchiha: that an Uchiha’s glare can spoil milk, that they turn into bird monsters on the full moon, that they sharpen their teeth to deadly points and steal human eyeballs and eat their own dead. Hashirama shivers.

“Sit down,” Madara says, and Hashirama blinks and the vision is gone, and it’s just his friend Madara standing in his lonely house.

Hashirama sits cross-legged on a cushion by the mantle. He’s still a little nervous. Maybe Madara has brought him here to kill him and renounce the alliance. But Madara is going over to the cabinet and removing a dusty tin. “Coffee?” he says, a little stiffly, and Hashirama nods, grateful.

The coffee is the instant variety, but it’s hot and it doesn’t taste bad at all. Madara shrugs off his cloak and hangs it by the doorway, then pours his own coffee and joins Hashirama on the floor. He doesn’t look remotely formidable or mystical anymore. He just looks like someone who has not gotten enough sleep lately.

“Setting up camp in the office,” he says, and smiles one of his familiar half-smiles and shakes his head. “You may just be more devious than I.”

Hashirama smiles back at him. “Mmm. Maybe so,” he says pleasantly. “Perhaps it’s time to add early morning cat feeding to your long list of infractions.”

Madara grins into his coffee cup. Hashirama is too happy to be nervous anymore. Madara’s really back, he’s really _here_ , and Hashirama's beaming and he can't stop. “I missed you,” he says, at the same time that Madara says, “I need to talk to you,” so they both pause and gesture for the other to speak first. Neither of them, it turns out, wants to speak.

“I read the noise complaints,” Hashirama says at last. “Madara, where _were_ you?”

Madara takes a long sip of coffee before answering.

“Wandering,” he says vaguely. “Ashamed.”

Hashirama frowns.

“I,” Madara says. There is a long pause. “I have to tell you…something.” And then he opens his mouth and closes it again and stares down at the floor. He looks like he’s about to cry. Hashirama frowns. His good mood is evaporating like a deactivated Susanoo. He can practically see Madara’s brain working furiously behind his eyes, and it’s _painful,_ seeing him inarticulate and hesitant like this. His heart is sinking. It feels uncomfortable and wrong; it’s as if they’ve taken a step farther apart, as if their alliance—their _friendship—_ is unraveling before Hashirama’s eyes. Hashirama _cannot_ lose Madara. He’s still too important.

These thoughts come spilling forth in a sort of messy confession.

“Madara,” he blurts out, perhaps unwisely, “please tell me if I did something terrible that night, just please let me know, because when you left I assumed the worst and I don’t want you to be mad at me, because I really did miss you, I promise. Please just—just let me know what I did so I can apologize properly.”

 _“No,”_ Madara says sharply. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat before continuing. “You didn’t…do anything…bad. It wasn’t you.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out, takes another. Sparrows are chattering outside.

“I wanted to tell you that I missed you too,” he finally says, in a great rush. “That’s it.”

Hashirama has the impression that this is definitely _not_ what Madara brought him here to tell him. But relief is flooding him anyway; Madara isn’t upset, _Madara missed him_ , and they’re both here in Madara’s parlor having their morning coffee, just like they’ve done a hundred times before.

They drink together in a still semi-uncomfortable silence. Hashirama casts around for a change of subject. There’s a wooden pipe in a basket behind the mantle, along with a plain leather-bound book full of what looks like feathers. He must be using them as bookmarks of some sort, Hashirama thinks, and he leans over and picks up the book and holds it up for Madara to see.

“Can I look in here?” Hashirama says.

“Yes,” says Madara, looking visibly relieved to have moved on from the previous topic.

Hashirama opens the book to the first page and really does gasp. It’s a catalog of feathers: tiny golden and gray ones from finches, black-and-white spotted woodpecker feathers, olive-green warbler feathers with bright yellow tips. Each one is labeled in Madara’s neat handwriting. Hashirama slowly turns the pages, fascinated. Beneath a small rosy feather is the inscription _Pine grosbeak, December 16;_ a long tapered black-and-tan feather with a curled tip simply reads _pheasant._ The next page is taken up by the pristine wing and tail feathers of a peachy-gray dove, arranged with its wings spread wide—“Stray cat got to it, I think,” Madara says, peering over Hashirama’s shoulder at the book. Hashirama glances at him and is glad to note that he looks pleased.

There is a page of glistening black crow and raven feathers, and several gossamer ones from a starling on the page opposite; Hashirama keeps turning the pages and the feathers are getting larger, crisscrossed with stripes and spots and dappled colors. _Kestrel, summer_ and _kestrel, winter_ are displayed across from each other; a long white feather with thick black bars reads _goshawk (immature);_ a series of inky black teardrop-shaped feathers with tawny streaks are labeled _peregrine._

“That reminds me,” Madara says then, reaching into his hip pouch and removing two long, mottled gray feathers. “Owls,” he says, carefully running a finger across the wisps at the feather’s base. He passes the other feather to Hashirama, who turns it over in his hand, fascinated. “The edges are fluffy. Silent fliers.”

“How long did it take you to find all these?” Hashirama says, truly impressed. “Unless—” he squints, suddenly shrewd. “They were all stuck in your hair, weren’t they?”

Madara smiles faintly and doesn’t answer. There are a few thick papers folded into the back of the book, and Hashirama takes them out, curious about their contents. It’s the same type of paper he uses to press flowers. This must be where Madara keeps the very exotic birds.

Hashirama unfolds the top paper and musty air wafts towards him. It’s not feathers at all; it’s a faded charcoal drawing of a familiar boy with black hair. The pointed nose is the same, and the scowl, and the dark eyes and the thin cheeks and the slope of the chin. “Is this you?” Hashirama says. “It’s a good likeness!”

And then his stomach turns to ice as he realizes what he’s looking at, reads the small signature in the corner of the paper. He turns the page over. There are more. There are a _lot_ more. Madara with a tiny kestrel perched on his gloved hand. Madara, somber and still, in his Uchiha robes. Madara laughing, his hair longer and wilder, perched with his legs crossed on a stony embankment. Madara, wrapped in a cloak, addressing a jumble of smudged and indistinct clan members. Hashirama flips through the papers, watching the young Madara gradually age into the man he knows today, until he gets to the last one—Hashirama is cold with dread—it’s jagged and unfinished, and Madara is sitting in an unlit doorway with his hair hanging limply in his face and his head in his hands.

“I forgot,” Madara says bleakly, “where I had put those.”

Hashirama tears his eyes away from Izuna’s drawings and forces himself to look up. Madara’s hand shakes as he sets his coffee cup aside on the floor.

“There were more,” Madara says quietly. “But they were lost, or burned, or torn up. He was always drawing. I never knew where he got the paper. He used to…steal a lot of things, when the clan wasn’t doing well.”

He winces as he says the word _steal_ , as if Hashirama doesn’t know exactly how desperate the Uchiha clan was back then. Hashirama realizes he’s still holding the pile of drawings, and he folds them gingerly back into the book. His fingers are smudged with charcoal.

“He took in a stray cat, once,” Madara says. “Did I ever tell you that? He had to be—six or seven years old—but he kept it a secret from our father and fed it scraps and cared for it for weeks. I _hated_ that thing, Hashirama, it was always giving me dirty looks when Izuna wasn’t looking—and then one day one of the falcons got to it and tore it apart.” He falters, choking on his own uneven breath. “He was so upset over that stupid cat…”

 _No, you never told me that,_ Hashirama thinks hazily.

Madara _never_ brings up Izuna. He never talks about him. He hasn’t given any indication that he ever _had_ a younger brother since the day they fought each other for the final time, the day before the truce. And now—Madara is laughing, and crying, and looking up at Hashirama with his brow furrowed and tear streaks under his eyes.

“He was so small,” Madara continues, voice wavering. His cheeks are wet now, and he is not wiping it away. “We used to laugh—used to say he had hollow bones. He was—” He bows his head slightly. A teardrop lands on the floor between them. “He was my weakness. And now…now—”

Madara buries his head in Hashirama’s shoulder and cries.

“You didn’t have to tell me all these things,” he says quietly, in Madara’s ear, and puts his arms around his best friend.

“I know,” Madara whispers. “I wanted to.”

Hashirama tries to pour all his respect and admiration and burning pride into the hug, somehow, so that Madara can feel it too. He’s taking these great shuddering breaths and his arms are wrapped around Hashirama’s neck and his hair is tickling Hashirama’s chin. He’s _warm,_ shockingly so, and they are so close together, breathing each other’s air—Hashirama’s shoulder is wet—but Madara is solid and real and alive, right now.

There is—there is _much_ more to Madara than the encounters Hashirama has had with him. Their paths have crossed over and over in the past and they are together now, walking the same path, but there is so much more of Madara’s life that Hashirama hasn’t seen. He has had other people in his life—his brothers, the rest of the clan—something that Hashirama only ever got glimpses of. Now here is the evidence, right in front of him, and it strikes Hashirama once more just how miraculous it is, having Madara by his side after so long, the very same Madara from all of Izuna’s drawings. He wants to know Madara's story; he wants to know every last detail, and he wants to absorb all this knowledge and have it spread throughout the village—he wants _everyone_ to see Madara the way he does.

He loves how Madara puts cream and sugar in his coffee when he thinks no one is looking; he loves Madara’s sad smiles and the little wrinkles around his eyes and the way he goes completely still and stares into the distance sometimes, as if he’s frozen in space and time. He loves Madara’s scratchy laugh and his proud self-assured walk and his squinty frowns; he loves Madara’s pale neck and his tangled dark hair and his pointed nose and his strong shoulders, and, yes, he even loves Madara’s stark, unnerving house, and all the strange power contained within it. He loves Madara’s book of feathers; he loves his worn tunic and his dusty sandals and his dark gloves and his long black eyelashes. He loves Madara’s powdered coffee in a can because it’s the cheapest kind and he’s not used to having money, now that the Uchiha is no longer a strictly mercenary clan, and Hashirama wants to take Madara out to dinner at a really good place and watch his face light up when the food arrives—

—and he thinks maybe, _maybe,_ he’d like to know what it’s like to kiss Madara.

The instant this very dangerous thought crosses his mind, an onslaught of revelations hits him like a sack of flour. All _sorts_ of possibilities are opening up. He could—he could kiss Madara’s lips, the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, his forehead, his lovely snarled dark hair…

_Oh._

This part Hashirama says out loud, to himself, still entwined with Madara on the floor. His heart is thumping in his chest. He can feel his face getting hot. Then, without any warning, Hashirama realizes that he is hard, _right now,_ with Madara half on top of him, practically sitting in his lap. And—and Madara is still crying onto his shoulder and Hashirama does _not_ need this; he’s supposed to be giving emotional support, not concealing a badly-timed erection—but the realization that Madara could potentially discover what’s happening between his legs somehow makes him even _harder_ and his traitorous dick gives a significant twitch and Hashirama has to quickly draw back and rearrange his limbs into a more innocent position. Madara follows him, unconsciously, _vexingly,_ as if he’s drawn to him somehow.

This can’t possibly be happening. He’s just settled things with Madara; Madara will be _beyond_ pissed if he throws this wrench into the ordeal—

 _Oh_ but he could kiss all the way down Madara’s chest, trace the scars that he knows are there underneath his tunic: slash marks from countless swords and kunai, and long thick rope-like marks from Hashirama’s own mokuton— _no,_ do _not_ think about the applications of the mokuton in this context—the revelations are positively flooding his brain; he wants to know how Madara sounds when he’s completely at Hashirama’s mercy, begging and screaming with breathless desperation, and the one rational thought in his head is that it’s _criminally_ unfair that Hashirama is only just now considering these highly exciting possibilities.

Why hasn’t he thought of this before? _Why the fuck hasn’t he thought of this before?_

Hashirama briefly considers making a wood clone and slapping himself in the face, but then he reasons that he’ll have two erections to deal with instead of one, and one is…more than enough.

So—Madara.

Maybe it’s for the better that more people don’t see Madara the way he does.

“Oh no,” Hashirama says weakly. Forget-me-nots are sprouting out of the floorboards, hundreds of tiny blue blooms bursting to life before his eyes. Madara untangles himself from Hashirama’s shoulder and surfaces with his eyes puffy and red and his hair sticking up in odd places. His mouth goes slack as he sees the flowers, and Hashirama has never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life. It’s _astounding—_ he had never even thought to consider any of this before—but now he _is_ considering it and it feels so natural, so right, and in that precise moment he realizes that he’s been in love with Madara for a very, very long time.

Even as he thinks this, the forget-me-nots spring up with increased vigor and volume. Hashirama puts his hand flat on the floor and blossoms curl up from the wood around his fingers, tickling his skin. His heart is hammering against his ribcage. A gentle rain begins outside, droplets landing softly against the window. Madara has gone completely still. Then, very slowly, he extends his index finger and brushes it against one of the blossoms, mesmerised.

“I’m so sorry,” Hashirama says, blushing furiously, forget-me-nots tangled in his hair. “I didn’t—I can clean them up—”

“Hashirama,” rasps Madara, placing his hand on top of Hashirama’s and running his calloused thumb across Hashirama’s skin, “don’t you _dare_ clean these up.”

Hashirama’s heart gives a magnificent leap. Madara is touching his hand— _Madara is holding his hand—_ a sort of heated explosion is taking place in Hashirama’s midriff and he doesn’t even care that Madara can probably see his erection because _Madara is holding his hand_ —

“I think,” Hashirama says, “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” Madara murmurs. Hashirama leans closer. It smells like rain.

In the end it is Madara who closes the distance first, Madara who puts his hands in Hashirama’s hair and kisses him soundly on the lips. Hashirama’s vision dissolves into a rosy haze. Madara is kissing him, really _kissing him,_ albeit a little tentatively, and his lips are chapped and Hashirama can hear him exhaling shakily as they come apart.

“You are such a fool,” Madara whispers against Hashirama’s lips as he draws back.

Hashirama’s mouth is dry, and the only thought in his head is something like _yes, yes I am._ He reaches for Madara’s hand, laces their fingers together. _Madara._ Madara, he loves Madara, and he—he always has, hasn’t he. They’re still entwined, foreheads resting together, and Madara’s arm is around his neck and Hashirama’s hand is on Madara’s waist and it’s _wonderful._

“I can’t believe this,” Madara is saying.

Hashirama is incredulous, giddy, winded. He feels as if someone’s lit a fire in his head, one that he couldn’t extinguish even if he wanted to. “You…you wanted to kiss _me?”_

“So,” Madara murmurs, squeezing Hashirama’s shoulders, “ _so_ badly. Now you know.”

Hashirama pouts, tangles his fingers in Madara’s hair. “You should have just told me!”

 _“Ha!”_ Madara laughs, and Hashirama feels all the air leave his lungs—Madara is laughing, _Madara is laughing because of him!_ “Practice what you preach, stubborn bastard.”

“I could say the same to you,” Hashirama says, but he’s grinning and he can’t stop.

Raindrops dance against the roof. “You could.”

“Stubborn bastard,” Hashirama mutters, and kisses him again for good measure.


	9. Interlude

(Interlude)

* * *

 

Madara skids to a halt and crouches by the edge of the water, panting. He has never been challenged before. Not playfully, anyway. No one has ever taken him on like this; no one has been able to keep up with him so effortlessly. Or, at least, Hashirama makes it _look_ effortless.

Madara had _not_ expected Hashirama’s combat skills to even come close to his own. But here they are, both out of breath, both grimy and sweat-drenched and sore, and Hashirama is about to call another draw. (He has the feeling that Hashirama is holding back something, but he’s not sure, because Hashirama seems just as tired as he is, and he asked Hashirama to go all out this time, just—Hashirama is _different._ He always has been.) Even aside from their sparring matches, Madara can barely keep up with Hashirama’s words. He talks so fast, and so _well._ It’s frustrating, it’s confounding—it’s invigorating.

“That’s a draw!” Hashirama says, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Madara takes a bit longer to catch his breath. “Right,” he says. (Yes—frustrating.) “Let’s eat.”

Hashirama has brought the mushroom soup that he likes, and they both sit drinking it in silence for a while. The mist is burning off the river; it’s getting close to afternoon. They’re probably going to have to say goodbye to each other soon, and it’ll be another week of agony, not knowing whether the other is alive or dead. Not that they mention this, of course. It’s always the same exchange—“Until next time,” then “Don’t die,” and they’ll both disappear into the trees, back to their real lives.

“What happened to your cut?” Madara says, catching Hashirama’s wrist as he moves to pick up his scarf from the riverbank. Hashirama looks confused for a second, and a line appears between his eyebrows. Madara examines his spotless forearm, bewildered.

“What cut?” Hashirama says, frowning harder.

Madara lets him go with a scowl. “I thought—I could have sworn you were bleeding earlier.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen. _“Oh,”_ he says, in a very different voice. “Oh. It must have been—I mean—it was probably nothing. Just a scrape.”

Madara isn’t entirely convinced, but he’s also pretty sure that this conversation is beginning to tread into dangerous, revealing territory, and he’s far too fond of Hashirama to learn details about him that would force them to fight for real. The Uchiha clan has made many, many enemies under Tajima’s direction.

“You know healing jutsu?” Madara says tentatively, half afraid to learn the answer, but unable to stop himself from asking. He’s genuinely curious. He wishes he could have met Hashirama under any other circumstances, so that they could learn about each other properly, with no clan warfare in the way. Off the top of his head, he can think of a few enemy clans who specialize in healing techniques. Just as long as he’s not—

“Well, yeah!” Hashirama says. “I’m a medic. You know, back—back home.”

Madara rests his hands on his hips. “Hmph. I never get hurt.” He’s secretly impressed.

“Oh?” Hashirama says, eyes twinkling. “I can tell that you hyperextended your right knee not more than a week ago, and you’ve got limited range of motion in your left shoulder—could be a damaged tendon that’s healing badly—you should rest it as soon as you can; overexertion will only make it worse.”

Madara snorts, because the prospect of Tajima letting him _rest_ is about as likely as a blizzard in the middle of July. He tells Hashirama this, who goes very quiet and nods slowly and says “I understand” while staring down at the water.

Madara leans back and stretches out luxuriously on the stones, crossing his legs and putting his arms up behind his head. Never mind his knee, never mind his shoulder; Hashirama cares about him, Hashirama is worried about him! Madara fantasizes briefly about accidentally showing him the formidable bruise on his ribcage from earlier in the week, but decides against it. He wants Hashirama to think he’s strong and capable and clever and collected.

“We should get back,” Madara says, and doesn’t move.

Hashirama still looks gloomy. “We should.”

“Thank you for the food,” Madara says. (Right—another thing they don’t speak about. Whatever clan he’s from, Hashirama definitely has enough to eat.)

Hashirama smiles at that. “Thanks for eating it with me.”

They really do stand up then, in one simultaneous, fluid movement, as if they are just dancers in an arena, about to step off the stage and rejoin reality. And then comes the last, vital segment of the ritual: “Until next time,” Hashirama says, to which Madara says “don’t die”, like always. The dance is over. Madara retreats into the forest, pressing one hand to his chest. This is not part of their dance. For some strange reason he feels like he’s about to cry.


	10. Chapter 9

9.

“There is nowhere in the world I’d rather be right now,” Hashirama is saying. “I mean it.”

It is early evening and they are sitting together in Hashirama’s courtyard, watching the sun sink towards the horizon. The weather has been surprisingly mild—curious, for early winter—but Madara isn’t complaining, especially because it’s his day off and he’s smoking his pipe with his head resting in Hashirama’s lap, and Hashirama is stroking his hair and holding his hand.

Madara blows a smoke ring. “Me too.”

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Hashirama says, stroking Madara’s hand with his thumb. Madara looks up at him. He knows that voice. Sure enough, the beginnings of tears are glistening in Hashirama’s eyes. Madara sets his pipe down and reaches for Hashirama’s shoulders and they kiss softly; Hashirama’s hair is falling into his face and Madara laughs against Hashirama’s lips and tucks it behind his ear for him.

They come apart, and Madara settles back into Hashirama’s lap, marveling at the soft warmth of Hashirama’s hand. Peace is strange, he thinks. He remembers all the battles they had—this very hand, the one holding his own, has made countless handsigns and swung countless swords into flesh; this hand held the kunai that he nearly plunged into his own abdomen—Madara shivers slightly. It is not an unpleasant shiver. All of these things he remembers with acute clearness—Hashirama is still that same person he used to battle for months at a time, back then. And yet, now that they’re at peace—

“I miss it, though,” Hashirama says abruptly, “sparring with you.”

Madara’s heart pounds. Hashirama has always had the uncanny ability to voice exactly what Madara is thinking. “So do I,” he says.

They adjust, look at each other very seriously. Their hands are still touching.

“We could,” Hashirama says, “do it again. Here. If—if you wanted to.”

Madara stands up, adjusting his robes. “Yes,” he says, “I would.” He can feel hot anticipation snaking down his spine, curling up in his midriff.

“Okay!” says Hashirama, standing up as well. He crosses his arms. “You want to right now?”

There is a split second of hesitation, and then Madara responds by dashing towards him with his fist raised. Hashirama dodges it easily, just as Madara expected him to, and responds with a swinging fist of his own. Madara catches it between his forearms, twists Hashirama’s arm around until he has to duck out of the way and straighten up again. His fluttering hair catches the evening sunlight as it settles down across his back, and Madara forgets what he’s doing for a moment as he watches in awe.

“If I didn’t know better,” Hashirama laughs, “I’d say you’re trying to flirt with me.”

Madara grins his lopsided grin. “Maybe I am,” he says, and he bends over backwards and kicks Hashirama in the face. He hears a snap; he’s broken Hashirama’s nose, and Hashirama pinches it absentmindedly between two fingers, lunging forward with his free arm—saplings are sprouting out of his sleeve, new leaves curling outward as he moves. Madara swerves, dives into a crouch, and comes up panting and grinning.

“Sorry,” he says, but Hashirama, maddeningly serene, has already effortlessly healed himself; they run at each other again and this time green mokuton tendrils brush Madara’s wrist and he has to flip backwards to avoid becoming ensnared. He rushes at Hashirama again with a shout of frustration. Hashirama has the size advantage; he always has, but Madara is clever and agile and _quick_ and his timing is unparalleled; Hashirama has said so himself, countless times. And yet—a hand meets his forearm, a shoulder slams into his foot—Hashirama is blocking him, always infuriatingly _in the way_ —three more times they clash and then Hashirama counters with a powerful kick and Madara skids back, lands on all fours with his chest heaving. Hashirama is _strong_. He forgets just _how_ strong sometimes—well, he can never fully forget—but seeing him in peacetime, laughing and drinking and relaxing and tending to the village, is _nothing_ compared to watching him fight.

Madara pops his shoulder back into alignment, gathers his chakra in his lungs, and then blows flickering hot ash from his mouth, shrouding them both in an explosion of smoke and sparks. He has to be careful not to ruin Hashirama’s courtyard, he thinks, but half the floor is already destroyed from Hashirama’s own mokuton, so he reasons a bit of grime can’t hurt. He can just barely see Hashirama shielding his face before he disappears into the ash, but his chakra is there, pulsing slightly. He’s grown a wooden shield, that quick, clever _bastard;_ he’s going to wait for Madara to come to him.

Hashirama does not have to wait long. Madara approaches from the side and vines very nearly wrap around his legs; he leaps into the air and Hashirama reaches up while he’s overbalanced and seizes his ankle, neatly dodging a volley of shuriken. Madara curses, and then concentrates, reflects the shuriken back towards them both; Hashirama is not expecting this, and one grazes his cheek, leaving a red line on his skin. He does not, however, let go of Madara’s ankle.

Hashirama swings him around and heaves him bodily aside; Madara’s stomach lurches and the wind rushes out of his lungs as he hits the wall, his shoulder smarting beautifully. Hashirama is running at him, his hair streaming behind him like a long dark banner, and his eyes are alight with mischievous excitement—Madara raises his own hands in defense this time and Hashirama grabs his wrists and forces them down—they’re both pinned against the courtyard wall, clouds of ash settling around them, the mokuton receding slowly.

They’re straining, both breathing hard, Hashirama’s clenched fists locked around Madara’s forearms. Hashirama’s hair flutters in front of his face as he attempts to catch his breath. The cut on his cheek is already gone. Madara grins breathlessly, eyes wild, muscles tensed, ready to spring. Their faces are inches apart. Hashirama leans in closer, exhaling audibly. His eyes slide slowly closed—Madara makes a small questioning sound in his throat as Hashirama’s grip loosens slightly—and then their lips connect.

It takes a moment for Madara to process the fact that he’s being kissed. The courtyard is dissolving and time is grinding to a complete halt and the only sensation he knows is the perplexing feeling of Hashirama’s smooth lips brushing against his.

Kissing him—Hashirama is _kissing him—_

And Madara’s mouth falls open slightly and there’s _tongue_ now, pressing hotly against his own; Madara isn’t expecting this and he makes a muffled sound of surprise. Hashirama lets him move, lets him reach up and cup his face and not-so-gently pull him closer to return the kiss properly. His sharingan is throbbing— _when did he activate his sharingan?_ —and within the span of an instant, he’s infinitely more aware of every sensation in his body—the blood racing under his skin, the quickening thud of his heartbeat, his stinging shoulder, his burning hot midriff, the chakra buzzing madly in the back of his skull. Time passes, or maybe it doesn’t, and all he can think about is the unspeakable heat of Hashirama’s soft lips, the closeness of their colliding mouths, the taste of ash and the desperate way in which Hashirama is breathing Madara’s air. He can feel Hashirama’s fingers twisting between his shoulderblades, clenching on the fabric of his robes. He aches with a sort of inexpressible deep longing that manifests itself as a small weak noise as they come apart. He’s— “Oh _fuck,”_ he whispers as he realizes—he’s hard and he’s breathless and Hashirama blinks up at him rather coyly with his damnably dark lovely eyes. Madara can feel himself turning crimson. He glances down at the waistband of his robes, then looks back up, blushing even harder.

“Is this all right?” Hashirama says, chakra billowing around him in dazzling hot waves. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Madara rasps, _“please—”_

Hashirama moves in again, kissing him fiercely—Madara’s hands wrap around his broad back and he can feel his muscles shifting and he moans softly into Hashirama’s mouth. They’re pressed together, hips and chests and tangled arms, and Madara breaks off the kiss to gasp wordlessly because Hashirama’s erection is grinding against his own. Hashirama groans and kisses Madara’s jaw, down his throat.

“Hmm—mmh—” Madara actually whimpers and his hips snap forwards to press firmly against Hashirama’s. _Damn_ these layers of clothes, damn Hashirama’s soft hands and his warm shoulders and his beautiful _face—_

“All right?” Hashirama murmurs gently, and his voice alone sends a pleasant shiver down Madara’s back. “Do you want to keep—?”

“Ohhh,” Madara moans, weak-kneed, _“yes,”_ which is the most coherent thing he can come up with, because Hashirama begins kissing the area between his jaw and throat in a way that renders him completely useless. They sink down to the floor together, Madara’s hair snagging against the wall, his elbow scraping against the wood. Hashirama touches two glowing fingers to Madara’s shoulder and the soreness lessens, until he’s left with a gentle tingling feeling that spreads to his chest and his throat as they keep going. The space around them both is completely saturated with chakra and Madara is breathing from the top of his lungs, unable to draw enough air. Something about their closeness, and the transition from fighting to kissing like this, is almost more than he can take—Hashirama’s chakra is overpowering, and Madara feels like he’s drowning in it as each new pulse rolls over his body, electrifying his skin, lifting his hair back from his face until it’s floating in billowing clouds around his head—and then he abruptly realizes that he’s actually suffocating.

“Stop,” Madara chokes out with difficulty. “Stop—I can’t breathe.”

Hashirama draws back immediately, taking his chakra with him. Madara gasps and coughs, feeling the last remnants of Hashirama’s scalding chakra recede, and he immediately feels empty and hollow without it. He knows his cheeks are burning scarlet—and not just from embarrassment; he’s still painfully hard—and he curls up against the wall, breathing as deeply as he can. He can feel Hashirama’s wary eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” Madara manages, glancing up at Hashirama, who looks just as embarrassed as Madara feels. “I don’t—” He laughs, still catching his breath. “I’m not sure what happened.”

“You’re a powerful sensor,” Hashirama says quietly. “I may have...overdone things.” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I got so—well—my chakra is—” He coughs. “We can stop, if you want,” he finishes quickly, turning a deep shade of pink.

 _“No!”_ Madara shouts, perhaps more harshly than he had intended. “I mean—I don’t want to stop,” he says, staring at his lap. His dick is throbbing. “I’ve wanted to do this for,” he falters slightly, blushing even harder than before, “a long time, and—this should be _easy,_ ” he bursts out, frustrated.

Hashirama laughs, not unkindly. “When has anything we’ve ever done been easy?” he says. Madara smiles weakly. He’s pretty sure this is the most turned on he’s ever been in his life. He leans forward, puts his arms around Hashirama’s neck, rests his chin on Hashirama’s shoulder. His chakra is not so overwhelming now, and it buzzes pleasantly against Madara’s skin, as if he’s being kissed by thousands of tiny stars.

“Just tell me what you want me to do,” Hashirama murmurs.

“Right,” Madara says. He crawls into Hashirama’s lap. Good—he’s still hard. Hashirama makes a soft sound of pleasure and jerks his hips forward slightly. His chakra flares bright and hot, but the feeling is manageable this time, and Madara allows it to sweep over him, spreading from his chest to his fingertips in a way that makes him giddy with longing. There is a deep, devastating ache between his pelvis and the small of his back, and he practically melts into Hashirama’s chest, burying his face comfortably in the crook of his neck (they fit together perfectly, some more rational part of him notes), and moving his hips in a widening circle against Hashirama’s own. “Let’s just—do this,” he manages, breathless again already.

Hashirama moves back, and the friction is painfully good. Madara is grateful that he doesn’t have to make eye contact, glad Hashirama can’t see his face contorted with pleasure like this—not yet, not yet—although the sounds he’s making, low and continuous and desperate, should be indication enough of how turned on he is. Minutes pass, and Hashirama’s hands move tentatively from where they have been resting on Madara’s hips. He runs his hands up Madara’s sides, down his chest; Hashirama’s fingers make circles on his belly through the fabric of his robes; he puts his thumbs in the hollows above Madara’s hips and Madara bites back a strangled moan because Hashirama’s hands are _so close_ to his dick.

“I changed my mind,” Madara says, shocked at how wrecked his voice sounds. “Kiss me.”

They’re still grinding on each other, fully clothed, and Hashirama obliges with vigor. He bites Madara’s lower lip, carefully at first, until Madara makes a muffled sound of encouragement and Hashirama bites him harder, sucking on his lip, and Madara can just _feel_ him smirking gently against his skin. Madara’s back arches and his joints pop and he clings to Hashirama’s shoulders with a sound that is nearly a whimper. _Oh_ but Hashirama is good at this.

“Can I touch you?” Madara says, breathless at his own audacity.

“Yes,” Hashirama groans immediately, “You can touch me wherever you’d like,” and Madara shudders from arousal and tentatively places his hand in Hashirama’s lap. There are far too many layers of clothing concealing his erection for Madara’s liking, but it’s _definitely_ there and he feels Hashirama’s dick twitch slightly at the contact. It’s—ah. It’s quite large. Hashirama is leaning back with his eyes closed and his face blissful and desperate and Madara loves him like this, loves seeing him gradually losing his composure. Emboldened, Madara kisses Hashirama’s neck again, stroking him softly through the fabric of his kimono pants.

Hashirama opens the front of Madara’s robe with warm nimble fingers and presses a trail of messy kisses down Madara’s collar. His hair slides across Madara’s shoulders, down his his front, tickles his chest. It’s slippery—Madara's scrabbling for purchase, eventually wrapping his arms around Hashirama's neck and holding on as tightly as he can, and then he throws his head back and it hits the wall and he doesn’t even care, because Hashirama knows _exactly_ where to kiss his chest to drive him mad.

“Are you all right?” Hashirama says, pausing to cup Madara’s face in his hands.

Their eyes meet. “Yes,” Madara gasps. Now their foreheads are touching, and Hashirama has one knee resting firmly between Madara’s thighs. Madara squirms and spreads his legs— _spreads his legs for Hashirama!—_ and Hashirama eases him down until his back is flat on the courtyard floor and kisses all the way down his chest, untying his robes as he moves. Hashirama’s tongue is hot and quick and as he carefully brushes his lips against the long pale scar on Madara’s ribcage, Madara thinks he’s seconds away from coming, but even as the thought crosses his mind Hashirama draws back.

“You’re sure about this,” Hashirama says, his lips inches from Madara’s abdomen. “You definitely want me to do this.”

Madara’s chest is heaving and his hair is in his eyes. He hooks one leg around Hashirama’s shoulder. _“Yes,_ oh, fuck, Hashirama, I _definitely_ want you to do this,” he says, and he’s babbling like an idiot, he can’t stop, “now fucking—fucking hurry up, Hashirama, _please—”_

Hashirama pulls his trousers down and in the split second before he does, Madara remembers he’s not wearing anything underneath them. Hashirama raises a questioning eyebrow at him. His eyes are lighting up with a barely concealed smile. Normally Madara would be embarrassed, but right now he’s genuinely too turned on to care.

Hashirama’s chakra hums, powerful and fervent and hot. He takes a breath. Then his lips—his lovely soft lips—gently touch to the head of Madara’s dick and _stay there_ and the feeling of sheer unrelenting pleasure is almost painful.

“Oh fuck,” Madara is whispering, over and over, with increasing urgency. Hashirama slides down and takes him all the way in and before Madara can stop himself he emits a desperate keening whine, thrusting his hips up into Hashirama’s face—Hashirama is not letting go, he’s not taking his mouth off Madara’s dick and _somehow,_ with miraculous ease, he hollows out his cheeks and swirls his tongue around the base. Madara shouts aloud, completely involuntarily, and thrusts again, harder this time.

 _“Hashirama,”_ he’s gasping, hands in Hashirama’s hair, fingers digging into his scalp. Hashirama’s mouth is unbelievably hot. He’s still down, one hand on the underside of Madara’s thigh, supporting his leg. Madara’s robes are up around his waist, fabric rubbing pleasantly against his skin—but this is _nothing_ compared to the power of Hashirama's skilled and agile tongue; as he gradually takes Madara apart Hashirama casts a blazing glance up at him, his mouth pressed flat against the clenched skin of Madara's abdomen, and it’s all smouldering heat and relentless, blinding love and fiery respect bordering on utter _reverence._

Madara shivers. His spine, his lower back, his hips are on fire, working back and forth with Hashirama's ministrations. And then Hashirama moans around his dick and the vibration is—is—The helpless sound that escapes Madara’s throat would have mortified him if he had even an ounce of doubt left in him. “Fuck, _Hashirama,”_ he rasps instead, and Hashirama responds with another muffled moan and that is _it,_ Madara shouts something totally incomprehensible and his back pops off the floor and he comes so hard his vision goes white.

It is all he can do to gasp wordlessly for what feels like several minutes afterwards. The reality of what has just happened is slowly sinking in— _Hashirama sucked his dick and it was amazing—_ and he makes a small, wrecked sound as Hashirama surfaces, chuckling softly, and gently takes his hand out from under Madara’s thigh.

“Here,” Madara says, once he can find the volition to sit up. It is as if all the bones have suddenly disappeared from his body. He feels his mouth go dry as he stares down at Hashirama’s erection. He’s really about to do this. “Let me...”

“It won’t take a lot,” Hashirama murmurs reassuringly, and Madara puts his arms around Hashirama again and rests his head in the crook of his neck like before. He reaches down and trails his fingers across Hashirama’s lap and Hashirama shudders and undoes his sash and guides Madara’s hand in the right direction. Madara curls his fingers around Hashirama’s dick—fuck, _Hashirama’s dick—_ and Hashirama gives an unabashedly loud sound of encouragement. He puts his hand on top of Madara’s, and now they’re both stroking as Madara covers Hashirama’s neck in tiny kisses.

 _“Oh,”_ Hashirama gasps. He’s trembling now, and his eyes squeeze shut. Then, urgently: _“Madara_ I’m going to—”

Madara doesn’t hear the rest because a wave of blindingly strong chakra knocks him flat on his back just as the nearest window—which happens to be the one to Hashirama’s kitchen—shatters, scattering shards of glass across the courtyard. There is a strong whiff of ozone.

“Oh fuck,” Hashirama says weakly, as if from far away. Madara assembles his limbs into a sitting position, groaning. There are streaks like scorch marks radiating across the floor with Hashirama at their center, but instead of charred and blackened wood each one is vibrant and green, covered in tiny star-shaped moss. Madara inspects this new development, curious. He has the distinct impression that Hashirama was not expecting this either.

“Well,” Madara says at last. His voice is completely hoarse. _“Well.”_

Hashirama hasn’t caught his breath yet either. “...Yes,” he says, with difficulty.

The sun is still resolutely setting.

“We should definitely spar more often,” Madara says, after a long pause.

“Yes.”

“Preferably soon.” He deliberates for a moment. “Tomorrow.”

Hashirama nods vigorously. “I agree.”

They’re both so solemn, so serious; Madara isn’t sure which one of them breaks composure first but within an instant they’re both laughing so hard that they can’t stop. They collapse onto the floor in a messy pile of sweaty loose clothing and tangled hair, and Madara can’t remember the last time he actually held his stomach to laugh but he’s doing it now. Hashirama has tears in his eyes, and he doesn’t even bother wiping them away.

“I’ll cancel my meeting,” Hashirama says, his eyes twinkling, and Madara gives a shout of laughter because he knows Hashirama is entirely, deadly serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huhuhu


	11. 10-17

10.

“Was it all right?”

Madara snorts. “If that was _all right,_ then the warring states period was a minor scuffle. If that was just _all right,_ then a volcano is just a lukewarm hill.”

Hashirama is laughing weakly. “You’re saying I'm a better lay than a volcano?”

Madara scowls, curling up more tightly around him. His cheeks are pink. “You heard me.”

* * *

 

11.

“We should tell Tobirama,” Hashirama says late one night, as they are starting to fall asleep on each other. “It’s only fair.”

Madara blanches. Instantly he is completely, unpleasantly awake. He props himself up on one elbow. “Right now?” he says, incredulous.

Hashirama laughs so hard he moves the futon. “Definitely not,” he gasps, after a long while. “But sometime.”

Madara groans and tugs Hashirama’s arm over his shoulders. He laces their fingers together. “Please don’t make me think about your brother right now,” he says. “I’m still in such a good mood.”

“I won’t,” Hashirama promises. He laughs softly. “While we’re on the subject, though, aren’t you glad you got the good-looking brother, Madara?”

* * *

12.

“You are drunk, Hashirama,” Madara says, shoving him away.

“Maybe,” Hashirama slurs, acquiescing, “but that doesn't mean you're not beautiful.”

Madara blushes. “Let’s get you to bed. _To sleep,”_ he clarifies quickly, but Hashirama is already passed out in his lap, long hair spilling over his thighs.

* * *

 13.

“Here are the latest groundwater quality reports,” Madara says stiffly, handing over a neat folder. Tobirama glances through it briefly before setting it aside on the desk.

“Thank you,” he says, with barely-concealed venom.

“I also got word from the daimyou, who is saying we can’t build on the east side of the river, so all the plans for the second district will have to go elsewhere for now, and the Shimura clan has requested an audience with the village leaders, so expect to have representatives contacting the office sometime later this week. Also, I am sleeping with your brother,” Madara says, as quickly as he can—as if that will lessen the blow—and he slams the office door and sprints down the hall before Tobirama has a chance to figure out what he’s said.

* * *

14.

“Did Madara say anything else?”

“Hmm.” Tobirama sips the last of his tea. “The Shimura clan’s sending someone to negotiate this week. That should be good for the village.”

“Oh!” Hashirama says. “That’s great news!”

“Yes,” Tobirama grinds out. He takes a breath, frowns, reconsiders, and crosses his arms over his chest. Hashirama drinks his cooling tea in silence.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama says at last.

Nobody scowls quite like Tobirama does. Hashirama watches the muscles working furiously in his brother’s jaw and is worried for a moment that his head is going to explode from excess pressure.

“What is it?” Hashirama says.

“Are you happy?” says Tobirama after a long pause.

Hashirama is taken aback. “Of course I am,” he says, and he means it. “I’ve never been happier.”

Tobirama’s face visibly relaxes, and he uncrosses his arms as he stands up to leave. “Tell Madara to keep it down in the future,” he says over his shoulder. “Does he honestly think he’s being subtle?”

* * *

 15.

“I already apologized! I apologized multiple times! For fuck’s sake, Hashirama, it was an accident!”

Hashirama hugs his knees tighter and puts his head in his arms. The floor is very cold. The fact that he is naked doesn’t help. “My own lover,” he whimpers, “putting me under a genjutsu…I’m not sure I’ll ever recover.” He looks up at Madara, very gravely. “Did my face look funny when I passed out?”

Madara smiles his crooked smile. “You did drool a little.”

“How humiliating,” Hashirama says, and he makes his voice go all low and serious and important, the way Madara likes. “There might be—” Madara shivers— “consequences.”

“You could always blindfold me,” Madara suggests. Hashirama watches him with keen interest. Madara realizes what he’s just said, and rapidly turns vermillion.

Hashirama tilts his head and grins innocently, and slick green mokuton tendrils curl up from the floor. “Yes,” he says, “I most certainly could.”

* * *

16.

“Come back to bed, Hashirama,” Madara croaks.

Hashirama puts his tongue between his teeth and scribbles through a line in the mission terms he’s drafting. He frowns, writes something on the side of the page. “How are you feeling?” he says. He taps the brush against his chin, frowning harder.

“Better. Come over here.”

Hashirama gives up on the mission terms, blows out the candle on his desk, and sits down on the edge of the bed. Madara crawls over to him, sniffling slightly. He gathers Hashirama’s hair up from his back and twists it into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. “You’re tense,” he says, and he presses his fingers into Hashirama’s shoulders.

Hashirama sways slightly on the bed, sighing a very long sigh. “Busy week,” he says. “Glad it’s over.” It’s hard to move sometimes, hard to walk, hard to stand. It is as if the mokuton is putting down roots. He wants to be still.

Madara kisses the back of Hashirama’s neck and kneads his shoulders and Hashirama thinks he could stay here like this forever.

* * *

17.

They move together, and Madara rolls his head and arches his back and makes a surprisingly soft sound. "Oh fuck, come on, Madara, _ohh_ come _on,_ Madara, come for me," Hashirama moans. He probably sounds ridiculous. He kisses Madara hard and whispers about a thousand other senseless things against his skin. He doesn't know what he's saying and he doesn't care; all he knows is that Madara is powerful and lithe and dangerous and lovely, all clenched muscle and tangled black hair and glowing eyes, and Hashirama is very, very in love with him.


	12. Chapter 18

18.

It’s a gradual thing, Madara thinks as he sheds his armor and wraps himself in a haori, but he notices in distinct increments. He can no longer see his ribs, even after a week away from the village. He steps silently across the cold room, shivering.

Hashirama is a motionless dark-haired lump in the bed, his wide back barely visible in the dimness. Madara lifts the corner of the sheets and slides into bed next to him. His bare feet, aching from the cold, instantly feel better. Warm relief seeps into his body. His adrenaline is fading, giving way to utter exhaustion.

Hashirama's chakra is subdued somewhat—it’s the dead of winter, and most of it is lying dormant for now—but it’s gentle and warm and soothing and powerful nonetheless, and Madara scoots closer to him, feeling dizzy with relief. Hashirama is naked, and his hair flutters as he breathes. Madara missed this: the intense closeness, the feeling of Hashirama’s chakra burning against his chest, the solid heat of Hashirama’s body pressed against his own. He’s tired, and his joints are aching. He lets his eyes slide closed.

It is Izuna’s birthday tomorrow. Not that the date matters anymore, with just Madara alive to remember it. Besides, Izuna has honeycombed and crumbled by now, in that familiar quiet way that dead things collapse into soft earth over time. Hashirama would have something poetic to say about it, how when the snow finally melts there will be wildflowers blooming over his body. He breathes so slowly when he’s asleep, Madara thinks. He’s still for a very long time in between each breath. Madara watches the curve of his back rise and fall and he runs his fingers through Hashirama’s hair, slowly, marveling at its silky warmth. Hashirama is exhausted and sluggish in the winter; Madara knows he aches when the trees turn bare and the flowers shrivel and summer’s vitality ebbs away. Madara is used to hating winter on his own, too. He remembers sickness and starvation and hidden rivers with too-thin ice, how even as a child he’d have to go out and search for scavengers who had left the compound and never returned.

There are the nightmares, too. Easy to think about now in the pale morning sunlight—Izuna is usually there, of course, his eye sockets black and empty; other nights he dreams of the Senju. Sometimes he doesn’t stop Hashirama's blade in time, and blood bursts from his slit stomach in gurgling streams. He wakes up and his hands are still slick with it.

Hashirama stirs and shifts and Madara immediately draws closer to him, wraps his arms around Hashirama’s neck and curls up in the warm spot he’s left open. Hashirama makes a soft sound in his throat at the contact. One eye blinks slowly open.

“You’re back early,” Hashirama says, his voice low and rough from tiredness. The eye slides closed. “I was going to meet you by the gates…”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Madara says.

Hashirama hums quietly. “What time is it?”

“Just after six.” He kisses Hashirama’s forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

Hashirama is not going back to sleep. He laughs, hooking a leg around Madara’s knee. “You’re freezing,” he says.

Madara smiles against Hashirama’s chest. “And you,” he says, “are very, very warm.” He concentrates, flicks his fingers. Heat surges through his hands. Hashirama sighs contentedly and folds one arm around Madara’s back, nestles his head deeper into the pillows.

“How was it?” says Hashirama presently. He’s nearly asleep again; his voice is getting weaker with every word.

“Fine,” Madara says. “Remind me to tell you when we’re both properly awake.”

“Any problems?”

“Hardly,” Madara yawns. “A bit of trouble last night by the northern border. Nothing too terrible.”

“I can,” Hashirama mumbles tiredly, “infuse some healing chakra for you, if you need…”

“It’s all right,” Madara gets out. He can hardly keep his eyes open. It’s still faintly surreal, sharing a bed with someone. If it was anyone but Hashirama, Madara doesn’t think he would be able to do it. And yet, he feels more comfortable now than he has ever felt sleeping alone. He also has the faint suspicion that Hashirama is surreptitiously healing him, or maybe he’s doing it unconsciously, and he holds him a bit tighter until he passes out.

The sun is up fully when Madara wakes again. Hashirama stirs next to him, groaning, a great mass of warmth and power. He stretches lazily, joints creaking, back popping, his shining hair strewn over three pillows. Madara tosses one leg over Hashirama’s thighs, cups his cheek with one hand, and kisses the corner of his lips. It has been a week since they last saw each other—touched each other.

Sex with Hashirama in the winter is very slow and subdued and intense, and Hashirama almost always falls fast asleep right afterwards. It usually starts like this—soft hands moving lower, sleepy kisses deepening. Madara straddles Hashirama’s waist, runs his hands down his chest. He is so warm, so beautiful. Hashirama’s eyes slowly open and he gives Madara a look of sheer bliss and slides one broad thumb down the side of Madara’s face, tucking his hair back behind his ear.

A while later Hashirama is still flat on his back and Madara is riding him, still breathing somewhat steadily, and Hashirama puts his hands on Madara's sides and Madara hisses and rolls his hips, adjusts the angle of their contact. He sinks down until he’s touching Hashirama’s waist and Hashirama leans in to kiss his neck, slow and lazy and tender. He trails his fingers down Madara’s chest, pauses at his clenched midriff, traces small circles into his pelvis. Madara gasps as Hashirama strokes his dick with maddening gentleness—Hashirama’s eyes slide closed and he smiles; he makes a small satisfied sound against Madara’s skin.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Madara warns.

Hashirama pouts. “You wound me.”

They’re both grinning as Madara tilts his head down to kiss him again. Without warning, Hashirama frowns, squints, takes a short breath, and then gives a violent sneeze.

With near-godly restraint, Madara only laughs at him a little bit. He tucks his fingers into his sleeve and wipes both their faces clean. Within moments they are quaking with silent laughter, still joined at the hips.

“For a moment,” Madara says, “I thought you had finished already.”

“Your hair,” Hashirama wheezes, by way of explanation. “Tickling me…”

Madara pointedly leans down close to Hashirama’s face, holding fistfuls of his own hair, and trails the tangled ends slowly across Hashirama’s nose and lips. “Take this, fiend,” he says, grinning devilishly, but Hashirama seems to genuinely enjoy the sensation, if the way he bucks his hips is any indication, and Madara is no longer laughing because Hashirama has hit his prostate. Madara’s mouth falls open. “Do that again,” he gasps. Hashirama sneezes two more times.

“Sorry,” Hashirama says with difficulty, dissolving into fits of laughter. “Your hair grew so much this past week! There’s so much more of it than usual, don’t you think? How did you do that?”

Madara kisses him to shut him up. His haori is up somewhere around his navel and the pleasant friction of fabric on skin draws a soft moan from him as he moves. Hashirama is still laughing silently against his mouth. Madara bends so that he's nearly flat against Hashirama's chest, and he deepens the kiss and sinks his fingers into Hashirama's sweet-smelling hair.

“Mmmm,” Hashirama groans, and his hands find Madara's shoulders, his back, his waist. They are breathing in tandem now, Madara moving a bit faster on top of him, his hair hanging in his face like a snarled black curtain. He’s sure it’s still teeming with leaves and twigs from his journey back through the forest, but none of that really matters, because Hashirama is whispering softly against his skin, and they are together and warm and laughing and alive.

“I love you,” Hashirama murmurs tiredly as they both surface from the kiss. His breath is warm. “I love you, Madara.”

Madara gives a low moan and presses himself closer to Hashirama's body. They both come like that, together, Madara's hands in Hashirama's hair and Hashirama gasping and amorous beneath him. Neither wants to come apart yet. Madara lies on top of him and feels his chest rising and falling and he closes his eyes and hooks a finger around Hashirama’s necklace, sleepy again.

“We should clean up,” Madara says halfheartedly, some time later.

Hashirama kisses his nose. “Yes.”

“Got to do my mission report. And the Akimichis are sending a representative tomorrow morning.”

Neither of them moves.

“Take the day off, Madara,” Hashirama mumbles against his throat at last, “I’ll go into the office.”

Madara hums. “Or,” he says innocently, “we could both stay here.”

Hashirama’s shoulders begin to shake and he gives a subdued version of his great booming laugh. “Was that real, honest flirting?” he says, sounding completely incredulous. “Did you just flirt with me?”

“Perhaps,” Madara says. “Or maybe I’m just looking for someone to wash my hair for me.”

“I could certainly do that. You know I love your hair.”

Madara can feel himself blushing. Hashirama’s warm fingers rub circles into his scalp. He’s fading fast; going by Madara’s usual estimates he’ll be completely asleep within the next two minutes. Hashirama’s exhaustion is infectious, and Madara sighs and curls up on top of him and closes his eyes and thinks how very, _very_ good it is to be back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's some more of this haha

**Author's Note:**

> WELL.....I hope you enjoyed this fic.....I do want to add more, since I have a lot of scrapped scenes piling up in a giant word document and I want to turn them into something good. this is dedicated to rhodes, who talked uchihas to me, and to mari, for being uhh...the best.


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